The Courtship of Colonel Fitzwilliam
by Macurial
Summary: Courtship would always be more difficult for him than his cousin. As the Youngest son of an Earl, he must make his own way in the world.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello :)**

**I always found an interesting parallel between Col. Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth, specifically them both having the burden of needing to marry for money. I had always envisioned what the Col. may do after the events of the book, and decided to see for myself. The same can be said for other characters in the chapters to come. You will see many familiar faces. Elizabeth and Darcy of course, as well as a few others that might surprise you.**

**I hope you enjoy,**

**Macurial**

Chapter 1

Sitting at the strategy table, a glass of wine in his hand, he looked over the plan of attack. A battalion of redcoats on foot were attacking head on, a regiment of officers on horseback were attacking from the west, and group of sharp shooters were positioned from the hills to the south. He drained his glass, and after a small hesitation poured another. It was going to be a long night.

Not every lieutenant made it to Colonel. Even if you were a career military man, there was no promise of promotion. Colonel Fitzwilliam had earned his post at such a young age from a mixture of cunning and charm. He had the wit to build a strategy, the persuasion to promote it, and the strength to execute it to a T. It was no wonder he had been assigned over a thousand men to his command, or that he had been put in for another promotion only six months after his last. The British army was frankly, "lucky to have him." His commander's words. And while the thrill of battle, the glory of victory, and the respect of his soldiers was priceless, it didn't fulfill him.

In the last year alone he had seen his cousin married to a woman he himself had greatly admired. His cousin's best friend also wed, to her sister, and from what he heard children were soon on the way. It made him long for a bond different from that of soldiering brotherhood, which while strong, did not make him fall asleep at night with the warm satisfaction of a husband, or father.

Perhaps the reason he was delaying sleep was because he knew that all that awaited him in his tent was a stiff cot and an itchy blanket. But that was the soldier's life. He quickly drained his second glass. Drink won't make the cot that awaits you any warmer, he told himself. Setting his glass down, he rolled up the map of the battlefield, stuffed it in his pocket, and quickly exited the tent.

His tent was less than fifty yards to east from where he stood, but he found himself turning west, he in eased into a slow stroll around the campsite, as he was known the do the night before a battle. After a few minutes he spotted a corporal sitting fireside outside his own tent, staring down at something in the palm of his left hand. Curious, Fitzwilliam veered over in quiet stride.

"You seem to have a captivating item in your possession sir. Pray tell me, what is it?"

The corporal stood at the sight of him, a quick salute to his cap, his back as straight as a board. "Yes sir Colonel. It's a picture of my betrothed sir, or more a likeness of her sir."

With a gentle wave of his hand, he said "Be at ease soldier, just a curious Colonel out on patrol. May I trouble you to see this capture?"

"Would be my honor sir!" said the corporal, sitting back down and handing Fitzwilliam the tiny painting.

It was indeed intricate for so little a canvas. It must have taken the artist many hours with a tiny brush to paint such a specific likeness. "Does it look much like her Corporal?"

"Indeed it does sir, at every curve." Replied the corporal with complete assurance.

Thinking of the time that it would take to paint such a tiny painting, the money it would cost, and the fact that the brush strokes appeared to be made by a left handed painter, the Colonel made an easy assumption. "I would wager a guess that you painted this yourself Corporal. Recently, in fact."

Surprised, but pleased, the corporal replied, "I did indeed sir, not a fortnight prior. How could you tell?"

Fitzwilliam smiled. "Only a man in love could paint something as exquisite with such detail as this! It seemed but the only choice." he said, handing the small likeness back to its owner.

"And only one who is in such love could recognize it thusly." The corporal replied. "Is the Colonel himself in love with such a woman?"

The Colonel paused, hoping to show no emotion upon his face. He was not in love, not anymore… "No dear sir, I am not. It was merely obvious from the look on your face that you were a man in love."

"Of course sir!" said the man, not doubting it for a second.

"To bed soon corporal. There is a day of fighting ahead and I have a feeling we won't get much sleep tonight, so rest while you can, for tomorrow I intend to be the victor. " The colonel said quickly, rising to leave.

"Absolutely sir!" the man said, already extinguishing the fire. "Good night sir!"

"Good night Corporal."

He spent the next half hour making his round to many a "Good evening sirs!" and the like. Several groups of men inviting him to join them for a drink or meal, he declined politely to each in turn.

His stroll came to an end at his tent just as he knew it would. He took another gander at a letter he had received earlier in the day, checking for the third time to make sure it really said what he knew it did. He took off his clothes and lay down slowly on the creaking cot, extinguishing the candle on the bed side crate. He tried to think of only tomorrow, of battle, of tactics, and not of what it would feel like to be in his own house, in a warm bed, with a woman he desperately loved falling asleep in his arms.

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**More chapters to come, I will determine how many based on interest and will update you with the amount in later chapters.**

**I eat Comments and Favorites 3 squares meals a day, they give me the energy to continue the story... Please good sirs, leave a fav or comment cause or I'll die. ****  
**

**No Pressure, but it'll practically make you a murderer if you don't... so, up to you ;)**


	2. Chapter 2

**MY GOODNESS! After both a fun and shameless attempt to get feedback, I was happy to see everyone responding in fun as well. Thank you everybody for your reviews. I have never had so many people guessing as to where a story will go, it was quite a joy to read all of your ideas. And as such, I will give you an idea of where the story is heading. **

**Firstly, as you will quickly see in the second chapter, Anne is going to be a main character in the story. For the first few chapters we will split between her and Fitzwilliam's POV. **

**Though it isn't really noticeable in this chapter, there will be two different time lines to begin with. DON'T FREAK OUT! This will only last for a few chapters, as Anne's time line will begin near the end of P & P while Fitzwilliam's starts some months after. They will both eventually merge, with other characters as well, and the rest of the story will take place at one time, though there will still be chapters from different character POV. **

**I was going to post a much longer chapter a few weeks from now, but since you all have been waiting so patiently, I decided to post a shorter chapter now instead of making you wait. Happy reading, and thanks again**

**-Macurial**

Chapter 2

She opened her eyes to a blackened room. The curtains smothered the windows, choking them of the light they gently offered. She could hear her mother's voice in her mind, high and unyielding. "The light makes you sick my dear… it has always made you sick." It had happened again.

Much like the previous times, she awoke to an ache in her stomach and lightness in her head. She always awoke in her room, which was ever unchanging. What did change from day-to-day was whether she could remember how she got there. Sometimes she could remember coming in and changing her clothes, having her hair brushed, and settling into bed, but many times… she couldn't remember the previous day at all. She would have to ask a servant what she had done, who she'd seen and where she had gone. The servants would always tell her a list of people had stopped by, that she'd spent the day with her mother, and, as always, that she had gone nowhere. Whole days were often lost, and weeks were like a tributary of murky creeks, hazy and disarranged.

She brought her hands to her eyes, softly rubbing them. She had memories from childhood, and though often fuzzy, they were enough to remind her. It hadn't always been like this.

She could remember many days of play outside in the summer months. Rosing's had a garden that was perfect for children hiding and seeking, a day could easily be lost trying to find a friend. She had a vague memory of looking around a hedge to find two curly-haired boys crouched and giggling.

" I can't recall a turn in which I didn't discover you." she heard herself say.

"You only found us because we laughed!" the taller one said, pulling the other to his feet.

"Yes!" she replied. "But then, you always laugh."

_What were the boys' names? _The more strenuously she focused, the fuzzier the memories would become. She sighed, rolling to her side she pulled her pillow close. If her mind went to childhood, to sunlight, and to playing, it eventually lead to…

_Papa. _

She tried to clear her mind, stop the flow of thought. She squeezed her eyes, thinking of nothing but her own breathing. For a few minutes, it worked. But she could never keep the thoughts of him away.

Sir Lewis de Bourgh was widely known as a joyful man. His great wealth allowed him to stay at home most of the year, where he dedicated many of his hours to uninterrupted play with his daughter. He was not what one would call classically handsome. He was fair bit shorter than average height, a bit round in the middle, and had a nose so large it would've belonged better on a canine.

His hair however, was the yellow of autumn leaves starting to turn, and when he leaned down to pick her up she would run her hands all through it, petting it, combing it, lifting it up then letting it fall. It was still the softest thing she had ever touched. He also had a beautifully full smile, which he gave easily to those both close and newly acquainted, and if one was around Rosing's on one of those days spent with his daughter, one could easily assume that it was a permanent feature.

They would play many sorts of games together. When it was too wet to go out, they'd keep by the fire playing chess and cards until Anne couldn't take the sitting around anymore! Then, with just a little persuasion and a few quick glances around the room to see if her mother was near, he'd say in a whisper "Cakes and Castles?"

It was her favorite game.

The first task was to build a castle using only the items that could be found in her room. The bed and mattress would be used to form a foundation and wall, while the sheets formed a bridge and moat. Once the castle was built, he'd announce:

"Queen Anne, the kingdom has run out of cakes! We are done for!"

"All is not lost good sir! I have heard of a faraway land… there, cakes are grown by the hundred. And if we are quite sneaky, we may be able to acquire one."

"I have heard of the place of which you speak. The journey there is fraught with danger! Few have the cunning to steal such delicious cakes without being apprehended."

"But the need is dire sir! We must have cake!"

"Yes we must!"

They would then tiptoe across the entire house, hiding from every servant and whispering conspiratorially the entire way. Once they returned, making sure that the drawbridge was up and castle was secure, they would hurriedly dive in (for they were quite famished by this point) seeing no need for plate or fork.

Sometimes at night when he was putting her to sleep, if he could catch her unawares, he would pick her up, raising her high in the air and say "Anne, you are flying! how is it you are flying?"

When her giggles would finally subsist she'd say "I cannot say, perhaps the winds of got me!"

"Yes indeed!" he'd say, "Quite strong those winds can be. Quite strong." He'd spin her around a few more times before gently "crashing" her down on the bed, and tucking her into it.

One night after doing this she asked, "Papa, do you think there will come a day when people really can fly?"

One thing she truly loved about her father, was that he never laughed at her silly questions. He always took a second to ponder them with good thought before responding, as he did then.

"Yes my dear." He said, after a minute of deliberation. "I truly believe so."

He then kissed her on the cheek, and tucked the covers over her shoulder one last time. Blowing out her candle, he quietly moved towards the door. Before turning the knob, he turned around, and said in the middle of the darkness. "And my sweet Anne… When that day comes, and we can fly… I don't believe we'll ever come down."

A month later he had his first dizzy spell. Two months later, he had a seizure in front of twenty dinner guests. And not a month after that he was bed ridden. It all began soon after. The haze, the forgetting, _the medicine_. A year went by, five, ten, twenty... just that fast, and here she was, laying on the same bed she did that night many years ago when they had spoke of flying.

A servant would be in soon to wake her, as would her mother with the medicine. Soon she'd be fine, the memories would fade away becoming fuzzier and weaker. She just had to wait, a few minutes more and she'd forget all about flying, and cakes, and curly-haired boys with adorable giggles, but mostly she'd forget the thought running through her mind right now. That if her father were here to see her and she was now, frail...sickly... pale... empty. What is it, she wondered, that he might say?

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**A dark chapter I know. Stick with it, things will start moving soon. **

**Again, thanks for reading! Pull up your boots and buckle up your helmet, because in the next chapter Colonel Fitzwilliam is going into battle. ****  
**


	3. Chapter 3 PART 1

**Its been too long I know, so lets just get to it shall we?**

It was time.

He had always possessed the inner clock of a rooster, an instinctive knowledge of the time of day. Outside his bedroom at home, there has been a grandfather clock since before he could remember. He would wager a pound with himself that at this moment it read precisely six o'clock.

Captain Harris always came to awake him at the allotted time. Not once had ever actually had to wake him. Many times Fitzwilliam would already be up and dressed by the time of his arrival, sitting at the table in his tent, beginning to eat his breakfast. And though the Captain had been with him many years, and had grown accustomed to Fitz's punctuality, he came every morning at six none the less. It was part of his routine, and the Army was nothing if not routine.

Rising from his cot, he threw off his rag of a blanket, his body instantly tensing to the cold. It was coming to the end of fall and the temperatures were starting to grow increasingly arctic. Shaking, he walked towards a water basin on a nearby table. He took a second to prepare himself, and after a few quick breaths, dipped his face into the water.

Some people swore by foods, some by drinks, he even had a friend who once swore by dance, but in Fitz's opinion, there was no quicker way to wake in the morning then by immersing yourself in ice cold water.

His body resisted the cold, screaming at him to pull away. After forcing himself to count to ten, he raised his head out the basin and shook the water out of his hair. He reached down the table in search of a cloth to dry himself with, finding nothing but table surface until he felt the gentle thump of cloth hitting him in the back of his head.

"I had planned on letting you search until your face had frozen over." He heard Captain Harris say. "But if it had frozen in such unacceptably wizened fashion, I don't think the men could bare the visage."

Smiling to himself, Fitz grabbed the cloth off his neck, wiping off the water, and the grin. Captain Johnathan Harris and he had been together since his second deployment in Russia. Several inches shorter, and much stockier, Captain Harris was the bulldog to his Collie. With reddish blond hair and piercing navy blue eyes, he was the picture of what a soldier should be: Hard, methodical, and unyielding.

Both men had become officers at about the same time. They each had been given fifty men under their command, and during the first few months of battle, both had seen more blood than that of a retiring surgeon. After many months hold up in caves and buried in holes, a mutual respect had formed. Each recognized in one another a true commitment to King a country that went beyond the Army. For most, the army was a paycheck, or a way to advance themselves in the world. To Fitz and Harris, it was a life philosophy. Though Harris came from a family far less renown than Fitz's, of course few were, this never bothered either man. And even as Fitz was promoted again and again, the gap between their rank in the army, and even their rank in life never bothered the men. The neither of them ranked men based on heritage, or the patches on their shoulders, but solely on their commitment to themselves and the Army.

"Has the enemy been spotted?" Fitz asked.

"No, but that doesn't mean they aren't coming."

"What about the fog?" he asked.

"It has begun to disperse, soon we will see all."

"I don't suppose the sun rose at an accelerated rate this morning." Fitz said casually.

Harris snorted. "No sir. If it had we would have to assume that God was supporting the French."

Fitz didn't reply. He was a man that had been in too many battles and seen too much bloodshed. He knew the truth. War was man's creation. God wasn't here, and if he came at all, it was only collect the dead.

"How long until we have to leave?" He knew the answer, but asked anyway.

"Fifteen minutes."

"We'll depart in five; I want to arrive before they do. Remember to bring the torch, and your letter." Captain Harris nodded, and they both set off to prepare.

As Fitz finished pulling on his pants and tucking in his shirt, he reached for the jacket that he had hung the night before on his bedside chair. He put it on, smoothing out the wrinkles, and patting down the pockets. He felt the map with the outlined battle plan gently tucked in to his left breast pocket. He hesitated, before reaching in and pulling it out. Looking down at his hand, he studied it. It was just an ordinary map, same as the one from the night before. Last night he had put it in his pocket rolled up tightly as to not ruin the lines, just as he had always done, not a single crease in it. Except now the map was folded, several harsh lines cut down the very center of it.

* * *

A few minutes later, they immerged from their tents.

It was still dark out. The sun wouldn't be rising for a while, but it didn't matter to the Colonel. The days in his camp always started early. Every man had a schedule of checks to do over his equipment, as well as chores to carry out for the camp. Many other Colonels he knew preferred to let their men sleep in a bit later, saying that a well-rested soldier well prepared soldier. In truth, the reason most soldiers had to sleep in a little later was because they were nursing hangovers from an evening of drinking and playing cards. Fitz's plan was simple: No more drinking. Earlier rising.

He had been a lower ranked officer when he first started this, and it had foreseen backlash. However, after one such early morning, he, his men, and the rest of the camp had been ambushed by an enemy battalion. His men were the only ones prepared. The rest of the camp suffered terrible losses, but of the forty men under his command, only one was lost. After that, his men woke early every morning on their own.

This morning however, as Fitz surveyed his camp, he saw few men walking around.

He saw Harris looking over at him in surprise, gauging his reaction. Instinctively, Fitz frowned. "This is not a sight I am used to seeing." He said.

"Yes. When I was walking over this morning it was like I had been transported a decade prior. I wonder if it has to do with the new recruits we got yesterday." Captain Harris replied, looking back at Fitz. "We mustn't tarry."

"First things first. Give me your letter, and I'll give you mine." They solemnly exchanged letters, each not looking directly at them, as if just the envelopes themselves may reveal something private.

The exchanging of letters was not something mandated by the Army, in fact, Fitz had never heard of anyone else who did it. It was something Harris and he had started a few years back.

After one particularly long deployment, Harris, Fitz and the rest of their Battalion had finally returned to England. At a small port town on the southern coast, the name of which Fitz could not recall, most of the men went wild. They went out drink, gamble, and Fitz was sure, much worse. The only two that stayed behind were Captain Harris and himself. Harris, while still a young man, had been married since the day he was legal able. He and his wife had two daughters. Though he never mentioned any of them by name, he was a very private man, even with Fitz, they were the loves of his life and he had no interest in going out drinking and socializing amongst other people. He reminded Fitz of a cousin of his in that way. As far as Captain Harris was concerned, the only people with knowing in the world were his girls, and to a lesser degree, Fitz. At least that's what Fitz liked believe.

And while the men went out, Fitz and Harris stayed aboard the ship, relaxing on the deck with a glass of wine each.

"I didn't think I would see home again. Not this time." Harris said, surprising Fitz with his openness.

"Nor I." Fitz agreed.

"Death does not scare me Colonel, but not being able to see my girls one last time… the thought is… unbearable to me."

"Yes." Fitz said, nodding. "I feel the same way. Not that I have a wife at home, but there are certain… people, I would wish to say one last goodbye to."

"Our wills are not strong on sentiment, are they?" Harris said, referring to the legal wills every soldier was to write out before each deployment, in case they were never to return.

Fitz mulled this over in his head, rotating the glass of wine in his hand and taking a drink. "I propose a plan." He said.

And that was when the idea of exchanging letters had come about. Each man, the night before a battle, would write a letter, or several, to the people he wished.

He didn't know about Captain Harris, but what Fitz wished to say always seemed to change from letter to letter. It was partially why he wanted them to write new letters before each battle, because what he felt was a little different every time he sat down to write. And he wanted those that he was writing to know what was in his heart on that day, if it so happened to be his final one.

* * *

Putting Harris' letter in his breast pocket, he noticed how thick it was. It seemed that as time went on, his letters became longer and longer. It felt invasive even thinking about why that might be. Fitz pushed the idea out of his mind.

"Hand me the torch." He said, surprising Harris, who always carried the torch as was army custom. Whoever was the highest ranking officer must not carry the torch, as to not make a clear target to enemy marksman.

Then, surprising Captain Harris again, Fitz started walking westward towards the edge of camp.

"Do you wish to raise the men?" Harris said, already looking for someone to give the order to.

"No."

Harris raised his eyebrows in disbelief, but said nothing.

Their encampment was in the middle of a valley, a good place to defend. The enemy would have to fight uphill and get over the ridge to attack. However, if they ever got over the ridge, they would have his army surrounded, and would then themselves be uphill, holding the advantage. The last update he had received of the enemy position, they were about a day's walk away from the valley.

As they came to the end of camp they entered an empty meadow. The long grasses passed lightly against their pants as the marched towards their destination, neither man saying a word.

Fitz couldn't take his mind off the map in his pocket. It had obviously been removed in the middle of the night, but yet, the intruder who had stolen it hadn't the mind to harm him in the slightest. This didn't necessarily mean that it was one of his men, too ashamed of their treachery to finish the job. It could have been the enemy.

It was possible they didn't want to alert him to their knowledge of his strategy, hoping he would execute the battle plan exactly as it was, making their own adjustments to lead his army into a trap of some sort. And lastly, and he acknowledged most regrettably, it might be a combination of the two: A soldier from his army having given the battle plans to the enemy, who would in their own turn lead him to entrapment. And what of the folded map? It was a poor spy indeed who would steal a map from his pocket, and put it back in such a way that would surely draw alarm.

These thoughts raged through his head as he approached the formerly determined meeting place. A lone tree stood out in the middle of the meadow, the only one for miles, and when they had agreed to this spot as the place of discourse, there wasn't any need to clarify where they meant. Captain Harris looked around expectantly, as if the French were going to pop out of a hole in the ground and yell "Surprise!"

Fitz looked around himself, and seeing no one about, he quietly said to Captain Harris. "Remove your coat please, Captain Harris."

"What?!"

"I know that your hearing hasn't failed you Captain, you are always the first to hear an enemy's cavalry in the distance."

Captain Harris opened his mouth to reply, then, not wanting to be insubordinate, started unbuttoning his jacket. All the while never taking his eyes off Fitz.

Fitz himself started to unbutton his own jacket, watching Captain Harris' obvious confusion with a little more enjoyment than he should. Once each man had finished, Fitz extended his hand out toward Captain Harris without a word. Harris silently handed over his jacket, then, at Fitz's direction, took the Colonels own.

After snapping the buttons on the jacket in place, Fitz looked down at the jacket to see how it fit. While a bit shorter and wider than it should be, it didn't draw attention as a completely bad fit. It would do. Having taken out Harris' letter from his own jacket, he tucked it into Harris' breast pocket, and then looked over the rest of the uniform, smoothing out any wrinkles he saw.

Smiling at Harris in an absurdly teasing way, Fitz leaned up against the tree, removing a pipe from his pants. He began stuff it with tobacco, leaning towards the torchlight for guidance. Of course, Harris must have a dozen questions he wanted answered, but he was disciplined enough not to speak out of turn.

"I don't believe I've ever seen you smoke." Captain Harris said matter of factually.

Fitz smiled. " Yes, I am quite new to it." _This is the first time, in fact. _

The Captain frowned.

_It could be him… _Fitz thought, not taking his eyes off the sword in front of him. _He could have entered my tent at night; no one would have even questioned it. _Of course, he knew how Fitz rolled his battle plans, and if he had paid any attention at all, he would know that he always put his maps in his right pocket.

"I don't like us just waiting here." Captain Harris said, an anxiousness Fitz had never heard from him before rang clearly in his voice

"I know." Fitz said. He placed the pipe between his lips, and then, using a twig from the tree and the fire from the torch, he lights the end of it, puffing deeply on the tip.

Captain Harris looked at him, measuring the colonel's mood. "What is it you know?"

There was a rustling of grass in the distance, and both men quickly turned to see two figures approaching. The torchlight was just bright enough to make out their figures. They had decided to ride horses, not surprising being the distance they would have needed to travel.

As the two men got closer, Fitz got a better look at them. One, a Lieutenant commander by the look of his uniform, remained on his horse, overlooking the hills to the east where the sun would soon rise with a euphoric expression upon his face. He had small eyes, tight lips, and a nose that looked much too sharp.

The other man, tall and heavy, dismounted from his horse immediately. He walked with a stomping sort of gait, killing all kinds of insects beneath his boot on his way towards the two men. He kept his chin high and his hands clasped behind his hands, making him both obnoxiously loud, but somehow at ease. He gave a curt nod to the two men, and in near perfect English said, "You wish to discuss terms?"

He addressed Captain Harris. Fitz, who kept the torch high but his head lowered like a servant in a dining hall, gave the man a subconscious push into believing Harris was in command. Harris looked at him incredulously, and after a few seconds realized that Fitz was not going to correct the man and that he had made them switch uniforms for this exact reason.

Harris quickly straightened his posture, hardened his face, and said to the Commander in front of him, "Yes, we wish to discuss terms."

"Proceed." The man said.

Still a bit shocked, and trying hard not to look at Fitz, Harris stuttered a little as he began. "A-all of your troops will be surrendered. All of the officers will be ransomed or exchanged for officers of our own; the lower ranked soldiers shall be stripped of weapons and uniforms. All large artillery weapons will be handed over, as well as horses and wagons. The officers taken capture shall be treated well, and the rest shall be allowed to return home."

The French Commander frowned at Harris. After a second of confusion, a mock of a smile formed on his face, and he shook his head. "Pardon me sir, but who do you think is in position to command surrender?" He waved his hand towards the commander still on the horse, who in turn looked over his shoulder and let out a low whistle.

The sun had snuck up behind the hills to the east, and the first rays of morning had begun to shine down upon them. In the distance, Fitz could see a large shadow rise out of the fog. It was still too far away to make out, but he could hear all the familiar sounds: The marching of boots, the trotting of hooves, and the jostling of weapons. It was the sound of an army approaching.

The smile on the French commander's face broadened. His army must've marched all through the night to get here so quickly.

"I believe the surrender we should be discussing Colonel, is yours." The man said. His army had now come completely out of the mist, just as the sun rose completely out from behind the hill.

Captain Harris didn't bat an eyelash, replying "And why would we surrender to you? Your numbers are not so superior that you should expect absolute victory."

Just as he was finished speaking, an officer of lower rank walked up the French Colonels side, whispered something briefly in his ear, and walked away with a bow.

The smile still on his face, the Frenchman took another step towards Captain Harris and said, "You should surrender, because as my scout has just told me, there is hardly a soldier in your camp awake."

Captain Harris' mouth went agape, and before he could correct himself with a proper reply, the Colonel continued.

"We are unexpected. You are unprepared, as well as outnumbered. We could enter your camp in less than half an hour, and then…" he trailed off darkly, feeling no need to elaborate on what would ensue.

Captain Harris exhaled, pretending to look off in the distance, when in reality he was looking at Fitz.

Fitz shook his head slightly, in a way that clearly said there would be no surrender on their end.

Captain Harris returned his gaze to their enemy and said simply, "We will not surrender."

The French Colonel looked genuinely saddened by this, shaking his head at the stubbornness. Fitz felt sympathy for the man. He had been in this position before himself, fighting an enemy that could not win, but would not surrender. There was no glory in it. No heavenly reason for the killing. As he had thought before, he thought again. God was not here.

"In every war there is a great massacre." The French Colonel said, talking to the ground in low voice so that Fitz could just barely hear him. "The man in command of the victorious end is always cursed for his evil… for not showing mercy. I do not wish to be this man." He looked up at Captain Harris, an angry look upon his face. "But if you will not surrender… I will." He said, taking one last step towards Harris, and saying between clenched teeth, "Damn you to hell. If you make me massacre your men I will."

* * *

** This is a Two Part chapter, Part 2 will be up soon. There was just too much to cover! I promise the next few chapters will be up faster then this one was. Too much RL got in the way, but I'm happy to be back at it.**


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